Christmas Without A Tree?

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I tried to drag myself out of bed. I was too tired, too weak, and still ailing. I had no choice but to lie in bed and hope that a crane would mysteriously appear and hoist me out.

“It’s getting late.” Hubby stated the obvious. “Are you going to be able to get up today? To celebrate Christmas?”
“How can we celebrate Christmas? I haven’t done a thing to prepare for it. I didn’t go shopping, I’ve been too sick to worry about decorating our tree, or even having you put it up. We don’t have any treats, presents, no lights . . . nothing. We just can’t celebrate Christmas this year. I haven’t got the strength. I can’t do it. And, to make matters worse, I don’t care—I’m too sick to even care.”

“Don’t worry about anything. Lie there until the kids come over. They have something special for you.”
“Oh no. I didn’t buy them anything.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

It wasn’t too long until my son, Brad, came upstairs and my daughter and her family came over.
“Merry Christmas,” they said. Their faces shone as if the Northern Star itself was shining on them.
“I’m sorry, kids, but I’ve been too sick to do anything. I guess we’re not having Christmas this year.”
“Nonsense,” Brad and daughter Angie said.

“We’re just glad that you’re home. That’s Christmas enough for us.” Brad spoke for the entire family.
I couldn’t help it. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. I cried and cried. I cried because of what had happened to me. I cried because everything was changed. I cried because my house wasn’t decorated for Christmas. I cried because there wasn’t a tree for that large present to sit under. I cried for every ornament I did not hang.
My family surrounded me. Brian announced, “I’d like to begin this day with a prayer.”

We folded our arms and bowed our heads while we listened to Brian, my husband, my children’s father and grandfather utter a prayer of thanks and gratitude. The things he said made me open my eyes to see if the Savior Himself was standing there. He thanked Heavenly Father for the gift of the Savior that by Him and through Him we can be saved. He thanked Him for His graciousness in preserving my life, and that we knew my survival was a miracle granted by His almighty hand.

It was not my time. I knew it. The Lord had spared me from an untimely death. And yet, if I had died, it would have been a wrong death, for His Spirit told me there were still things for me to do. I had been given a second chance—many chances, really, for this was not my first brush with death. Because I had been snatched from the jaws of death, yet again, everything was still possible.

After decades of me dreading the busyness of the Christmas season, believing I must conform to the ideology that I had to have at least two Christmas trees, decorated to the hilt, garland draped everywhere, a ton of beautifully wrapped presents under the tree, lights everywhere, not to mention making sure my house smelled liked Christmas, I witnessed that no matter what I did or didn’t do, Christmas is a sacred day, even without a tree.

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This is Christmas

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Have some true Christmas Spirit with that eggnog of yours. No kidding.

http://www.amazon.com/This-Christmas-Life-Support-Killed-Support-ebook/dp/B00QHDB8LO

Fun Facts for Thanksgiving

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You wanna know some fun facts about Thanksgiving? Really? Believe me, some of them aren’t so fun, but I’ll share. You decide how fun these facts are:

• You cook for 72 hours. The meal is scarfed down in 5 minutes. Not so fun.

• You eat so much that you beg for someone to split your stomach open. Not so fun.

• There are so many dirty dishes that need washing that you ‘accidentally’ break them all and throw them away. That one IS fun.

• You get to listen to your cantankerous hostess (me) moan about all her aches and pains. Fun for me—not so much for the rest of the bunch.

• Football games are being televised on every single channel—even cable. Yuck. Fun for guys. Fun for gals who like to watch big husky men act like babies, or who like to dance like they’re on the movie set of Staying Alive.

• After you’ve thrown away all the dirty dishes, there’s a floor to be mopped.

• You ‘accidentally’ loosen the kitchen pipe under the sink and flood the floor. Hubby mops the mess up. Floor is mopped.

• You drag yourself to the nearest sofa, collapse, then tell your guests to, “go home.”

• On their way out, you holler, “Thanks for coming. See you all next year for some more fun.”

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Santa Claus is a hunk. Just ask him/her/him . . . who knows?

You’ll laugh, sigh, and probably say, “Ho, Ho, Ho,” when you’re done reading, “Hubba-Hubba Santa Claus,” A romantic comedy of errors the entire family can enjoy.

Santa even said so . . . and Santa can’t lie.

Don’t Be So Hard On Yourself

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I mean it. Give yourself a break. We all make mistakes. I do all the time . . . and now look at me . . . I have three green eyes (monster on your right) . . . and I’m still happy. Look. I’m even eating.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. ‘Pobody’s Nerfect.”

How to Shoot A Turkey

Back-Off

My son goes to Turkey Shoots. I wish he wouldn’t. I always worry when he does. I worry that he might get shot instead of a turkey.

On his way out the door to go to this year’s turkey shoot, I said, “I hope you get a turkey, but don’t get shot.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, he turned to look at me with his eyebrows raised so high, I swear they went off his head—like a cartoon character’s eyebrows do when they’re mystified. With his eyebrows in the air, he asked, “What did you just say?”

Me: “I said I hope you get a turkey but don’t get shot.”

Brad: “Why would I get shot?” He scratched his head.

Me: “Well it’s got to be dangerous with all you hunters standing around in a circle aiming at the pen full of turkeys. With all of you guys blasting away at them at the same time, someone could get shot. I can’t believe no one’s been killed yet.”

Long, awkward pause.

Brad: “Wait a minute. What? What do you think we do at a Turkey Shoot?”

Me: “Shoot turkeys, of course.”

Brad dropped his head. I don’t know why. He just did.

Me: “What’s wrong with you?”

Brad: “It won’t do me any good to try to explain what a Turkey Shoot is, so I’m not even going to try.”

Me: “So, are you still going to go shoot a turkey?”

Brad: “No. I’ll just go buy a frozen turkey instead.”

Me: “That’s good. I didn’t want you to bring home a dead turkey anyway.”

Brad exited the door with his shotgun over his shoulder. I sure hope he keeps his promise and brings home a frozen turkey instead of trying to shoot one.

If You Were A Bird . . .

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If you could be a bird, would you rather find someone to poop on, or would you rather soar?

When I first read this question, I instantly racked the web-filled corners of my mind to determine who my target would be. I wanted a worthy mark–someone who deserved a good old splatter from up above.

You know what? I couldn’t think of anyone. Who warrants slimy, white and black poop landing on his or her head? Okay. Maybe there are a few who demand it, but why waste a wonderful day of being able to be a bird worried about who should get the crap-splat?

As I contemplated, I recognized that I’d much rather fly. I’d fly around and around, avoiding the telephone wires, of course. I’d soar high above them and admire the breathtaking view of the earth.

I’d soar so high, it would take my breath away. I’d be so high, I wouldn’t be able to breathe, so I’d pass out and dive to the earth. On my way down, I’d lose my bodily functions and probably poop on someone anyone.

When I turn into a bird, I’ll make sure I’m in Hollywood when I do it. That way no matter where the poop goes, it will land on someone who asked for it—preferably Gwenth Paltrow.

Career-Killing Mistakes (Satire)

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So you want a career, but are afraid of making mistakes—mistakes that would kill a career. Well, you’re in luck—you’ve come to the right post.

I just read an article about Career Killing Mistakes and didn’t learn one thing. The advice was trite. Stuff we’ve all heard before: i.e.
1. Act professional
2. Don’t be late
3. Dress for success
4. Blah, blah, blah

Do you know what you need? You need someone to tell you straight-up what’s wrong and what’s right as far as your career goes. And hey, I’m just the one to tell you. Why should you believe me over the other article? Who knows? Maybe the other writer really wants to sabatoge your career. Did you ever think of that? You know, make more room for her to steal your career.

I won’t let that happen. I would never do that to you. Why? Because I’m happy in my career of sitting at home all day, causing trouble on the Internet. I’m willing to lay it out for you. No holes barred. I mean it. I only want to help. Honest.

You want to keep your career? Here’s how:

1. Don’t pick your nose during an interview
2. Don’t answer an interview question with this statement, “That’s what she said.”
3. Make sure when you tweet a nasty remark about your boss, that he is on the toilet.
4. Don’t take a selfie during a board meeting
5. When you get caught red-handed with an awful tweet you tweeted, deny, deny, deny.
6. Don’t ask your boss to pull your finger.

Why I Write – My Writing Journey

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Oops, I did it again. I entered another author contest. Why do I do that? If you like the essay below, you can vote for it by going here —> http://questionpro.com/t/AJhWsZRXWf

Why I Write – My Writing Journey

Writing saved me from a world that suddenly went black due to a doctor who was careless. Writing saves me from a dark life with a disability that was no fault of my own—but because a doctor forget to evaluate me. I write to escape my world of being connected to supplemental oxygen to be anything or go anywhere I want. Writing takes me out of my home and into the fun world where my brain lives.

I write to get myself out of bed in the morning. I write because the stories in my head won’t stop bugging me until I help them come alive. I write to remind myself that my greedy surgeon couldn’t take everything away from me. I write because after five years of therapy, study, and hard work, I learned to read again. I write because the umbilical urge to create won’t go away.

I write to heal myself. I write to communicate to readers the concept of healing with humor. That it works. No kidding. My writing has been compared to the tradition of authors Erma Bombeck and Dave Barry. It is said to be quirky, offbeat, kooky, and even a little crazy.

In 2005, I suffered a major medical ordeal, which landed me on life-support. I was not only in respiratory failure, but multiple organ failure. Because the trauma was so severe, my brain crashed—sort of how a computer crashes. And it needed to be rebooted.

Before the medical nightmare, I was an author of 13 books. I lost years worth of painting skills, years of spelling expertise, editing skills, grammar, not to mention reading. While the Internet and social media were taking off, I was learning how to read again. It was through writing, that I learned to read once more.

I survived what doctors said was unsurvivable and I did it using humor and the will to live. Going against a premonition and instinct that I was too sick for surgery, I relinquished my own judgment to that of a surgeon who said, “Come in and I’ll evaluate you before surgery. I’ll see if you’re too sick for surgery. The surgery was performed and I ended up on life-support, not expected to live.

In my new release, Life-Support Dang Near Killed Me, I share my experiences in my memoir subtitled, Beware the Greedy Surgeon. I share the horrific story in hopes that readers can learn from my mistake . . . never surrender your own judgment for that of another’s.

The story is eerily close to what happened to Joan Rivers. The difference is, I lived to tell. I lived to tell how some doctors trample the Hippocratic oath while others honor it. I lived to tell people everywhere to trust their gut-feelings. I knew I was too sick for surgery, but I needed a doctor to confirm it. Why? Why do we give so much power to someone just because they have initials after their name?

Even though the events are tragic, I tried to tell the story with a sense of humor—something that helped me survive the unsurvivable. I had to have a sense of humor during the humiliating sponge baths. In the book, I reveal that a person in a coma can hear their loved ones. I reveal that angels outnumber medical staff in the ICU.

I tell how patients, even though we’re unable to communicate, learn to feel the energy of whomever enters a room. I heard firsthand, how doctors yell, “Stat.” “We’re losing her.” “I need 50 cc’s of—.” “Her temperature is 106°, ice her down.” “Her blood pressure is 70/50, straddle her—.”

In the book, I disclose how I had to learn to sit, stand, lift my legs up and down, walk, brush my hair, eat (I could have gone a few years without learning that skill), etc. I bring to light how absolutely awful bedpans are, especially when you don’t have one. I tell how it feels to be like a sack of potatoes, not being able to move or do or say anything.

I write about the feelings I had as I listened to the doctors’ talk about how I was going to die and what I did about it.

Readers of this book will be enlightened, worry, laugh, cry, and possibly cheer as I shine the light on the many things that can go wrong and go right while enduring trials and tribulations.

I wrote this book to help readers learn that they can survive anything using a little bit of humor. Life on life-support was one of my greatest challenges. It’s right up there with childbirth and raising teenagers. Laughter produces endorphins. Plenty of endorphins await release in all our bodies. My book will help.

When Life Support Dang Near Killed Me was released in June, I received many letters from people who had similar experiences as mine. I learned that there are many more stories out there. The public needs to be alerted as to the dangers of simple surgery. As a matter of fact, there is no such thing as routine or simple surgery. Dr. Kim, the doctor who saved my life in the ICU told me that. I am trying to share that news with as many people as I can.

I write because I want to my message. I write because at one point in my life, I thought I’d never be able to think a thought or read a word ever again. When all is said and done, I write because I lived.

Why ‘Eye’ Got Thrown Out

The Crazy Lady Speaks

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My mother-in-law was a woman who exuded dignity, respect, and honor. A special kind of reverence washed over me every time I was in her presence. She was noble; full of integrity—a no-nonsense type of woman, which is why I was so baffled at how much she enjoyed hearing, “LaRae Stories.”

I amused her, I suppose. Never before had she known someone as clueless as me. Coming from her, I always took that as a compliment.

Case in point: When my MIL was in the hospital recovering from surgery on her stomach, Hubby and I went to visit her. Two of her daughters were there (my sisters-in-law), . . . aww, they are such good children, always there to see to her needs, talk to her, listen to her, and egg me on.

Her room was full of family. I felt lucky they let me in through marriage. My MIL’s…

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